I grew up accepting my stepmother’s hatred for me. But I never thought she would stoop so low and lock me in my bedroom on the day of my American Idol audition. She told me I wasn’t good enough. I cried and begged, fearing I’d missed my only shot at life… but fate had other plans.
My name is Kelly. I’m 17. And singing has been my everything for as long as I can remember. My late mom, Rosie, used to say my voice could “make angels pause to listen.” She’d sit on my bed every night, no matter how tired she was from work, and ask for just one song.
Those moments were sacred. Just us, the dim glow of my nightlight, and whatever melody flowed through me that day.
A delighted little girl holding a mic | Source: Pexels
When she died seven years ago, a piece of me went silent. My dad, William, tried his best, but he was never good at grief. He’d leave the room whenever I sang… said it reminded him too much of Mom.
Then Debora came along. Tall, blonde, and flaunting her perfect makeup even at breakfast. The diamond on her finger was almost as blinding as Dad’s newfound happiness. She moved in with her daughters, Candy and Iris, and suddenly, our quiet, grief-stained home became something else entirely.
